


Silver

by Lemon_M



Category: Shaman King (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_M/pseuds/Lemon_M
Summary: Joco gathers the last few things he owns before embarking on his journey.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Silver

Joco made his way through the warm spring evening of Brooklyn, reflecting on what he still had.

Well, he had… he had his last name. McDonell. That hadn’t been taken, and it was a reminder. It belonged to his parents, even if not much else had.

He had Mic, who walked besides him. Quiet and strong, you could still see the sheen on his speckled coat even though he was an old ghost. Joco loved that cat, but he looked just as sad as him at that moment.

They walked down Brooklyn’s side streets, where myriad window lights clicked in and out of life as the people behind them settled in for the night. Joco caught glimpses of the rooms inside: a tv projecting blue and red lights on the wall; a tall bookshelf, a corner couch with a shaded lamp besides them.

Also, he now had powers he never could have believed. The night he met the old man had awakened something in him... or reminded him of it. Was it the shock of seeing a jaguar in the city, or had he always noticed those strange people from the corner of his eyes, and he’d just been too blind to see they were ghosts? There were so many people in New York already; how could he have known the difference?

Every once in a while, he even saw one in the windows he looked up to with envy.

Like a super hero, he could run as fast as a cheetah, jump higher than a tiger, punch, kick— he was untouchable! And he could do so much with it— he just needed to get himself to Tokyo in one year’s time. It was doable. He had to do it. Because despite the old man’s guidance, Joco still had his anger.

Tamed but latent, it had beat in his heart that night, three days ago, when his old gang caught up to him. He was proud not to have succumbed to anger even then, even if it burned in his throat as he laughed and helped clear his friends’ clouded hearts.

And now he had this box of ashes, all that was left of his mentor.

Unsure of where to go after procuring them, he decided to go back to the camp they’d shared. Joco must continue to train, but he didn’t feel like he could stay in the same place. He was used to transience, ever since he was little, never in one place for too long. He would gather what little they had had and move on.

He looked down at Mic and reminded himself he would stay by his side, no matter what. Jaguars were uncomplicated— he didn’t know how old Mic was, but somehow the cat was always curious about the city, although he often pretended he wasn’t that impressed. Joco reached down to pat the top of Mic’s head. The cat leaned against his waist and purred.

The camp was desolate, untouched since three days ago. The police had not bothered to investigate the death of a homeless foreigner, and Joco had bade his old gang to scatter before the body was found. He kept his eyes down until he reached their makeshift tent, swatted the flap open, and crawled inside, where he sat with the box between his legs and let Mic curl around him.

It was so hard to get rid of anger. After all the things he’d lived through and seen… and done. It was much easier when there was someone there to at least try to make him laugh, but that had only lasted six months. It had felt so much longer.

Mic uncurled himself and nudged Joco’s elbow, bringing him back to reality. He uncrossed his arms and turned to where Mic had crawled. The jaguar looked back and forth between Joco and a pile of clothes, pawing at the floor. After a moment Joco reached for the rags. Underneath was a mound of freshly dug dirt. Mic growled in excitement. Joco began to dig, but he didn’t have to go deep before his nails hit the lid of a small cardboard box.

Joco pulled it out and set it between Mic and himself. The jaguar looked at him expectantly. Inside there were more pieces of clothing, except they were as clean as Orona could have kept them. Joco picked a large piece of orange cloth with diamond-shaped designs on the hem. It was one of the wraps that Orona usually wore, together with one of the dark wool vests also in the box. As Joco unfolded the warp, something fell and clinked on the floor.

Flinging the cloth over his shoulder, he picked up the shiny piece. Joco examined it closely— it was a necklace of silver claws, scuffed and dulled over time.

“Never seen this one before,” he muttered. Then he realized: “Did Orona make this?” The jaguar nodded eagerly.

Joco exhaled, bringing the necklace to rest on his knee. If he polished it, maybe it would regain its shine. He traced his thumb over the claws, thinking of how little he had truly known Orona. The man had taken a chance on him— it took so little to sway Joco away from the life he’d led. If Orona’s one silly act was enough to get him away from it, Joco realized he must have hated that life for a long time.

But he had never quite envisioned the Amazon, always a blank space whenever Orona talked about it the few times that he did. Tangled trees all round, deep raging rivers, endless trails through the forest? If Joco looked around, all he’d ever seen was the concrete buildings and busy streets of New York. The unfamiliar shape of the necklace was the only concrete vision he now had of the old man’s previous life, far away and different. Now, it belonged to him.

* * *

Ren’s grumpiness flared early that day. He barged into the bathroom while Joco was brushing his teeth in his underwear, and yelled at him to ‘get fucking dressed’, and ‘get a move on.’

It was the first fight of the first round of the tournament, and of course it was his team of all people who would start it— and against who knew who. Joco spit into the sink and inhaled through flared nostrils. He marched to his room, and caught a glimpse of Horohoro going through the same predicament Joco had been putting off: what to wear.

They exchanged a look as Horohoro held an Ainu robe to seize it up. With a series of pursed lips and nods, they agreed it’d do as a battle outfit.

Joco pulled his bag and set it on the bed. He was already used to wearing the wrap—it was comfortable! But his dress shirt wouldn’t let him move comfortably. He had packed the vest, but never worn it. Those items were still the only things that were truly his. Joco passed a hand over the diamond pattern. In the mirror, he saw himself and thought he got a glimpse of the old man; they were now dressed exactly alike. He donned his shades on top of his head, and as a last touch, fastened the silver necklace around his neck.

“Hope this works for you, old man,” he said, even though he was surely alone in the room.

Ren and Horohoro were waiting by the cabin’s entrance. Ren hurried him up, and they set on to the stadium, ready to begin.


End file.
